


Absence

by IcedLemonade



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcedLemonade/pseuds/IcedLemonade
Summary: No matter what he does, it's never enough, so why does he even bother anymore?
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	Absence

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for themes.  
> Warning: Contains suicidal thoughts and attempts, implied cutting. If you are in any way triggered by these events, now would be a good time to click away.

With years of training and being a literal expert in the field of sneaking, Bruce slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the sleeping Kryptonian next to him. Without the slightest sound, not even a rustle of the bedsheets, Bruce was out of the bed, standing on the floor as if he were there the whole time.

Bruce tip-toed towards the door, the sound of his footsteps considerably masked by the soft carpet, then inched open the door.

It gave a tiny creak. Startled, Bruce's head whipped back towards the bed, hundreds of explanations already starting to form in his mind. Clark merely flipped over and gave a soft huff, undoubtedly from whatever dream he was having about fluffy sheep and rainbows.

Bruce gave an audible sigh of relief, eyes flicking to that handsome face for a brief second before forcing himself to look away, feeling another gush of something warm yet bitter welling up in his heart. This is no time for sentiment.

He continued his journey. The door didn't give him anymore problems after that, and before he knew it, he was standing in the long and dark corridor of Wayne manor. Hopping side to side like a crab, he navigated soundlessly down the long stretch of darkness, avoiding any stress points in the floor which would creak, the exact locations of which he'd long since committed to memory.

The staccato of his heartbeat sped up to a gallop as he reached his destination, an innocuous white door in the basement. It was one of the guest bathrooms, no one ever used this room, but Alfred and his addiction to tidiness insisted on cleaning it every week nonetheless. The lack of usage plus the excess maintenance work made the room look eerily tranquil.

Having learnt from his last encounter with creaky doors, Bruce tested this one by opening it by a millimeter. No sound.

He opened it by another. Still no sound.

Feeling bolder, he attempted a fraction of a centimeter, and the door gave a barely audible creak.

If he were anyone else, Bruce would have just tried to open the door one centimeter at a time, or just open it completely in one go. However, he knew better, thanks to a certain someone with super-hearing two floors above.

Slowly but surely, Bruce inched open the door millimeter by millimeter, until it was wide enough for him to squeeze in. He slipped inside with the agility of a snake, but in his head, it was the complete opposite: stumbling in like a man who was seconds away from being arrested with cops hot on his tail.

Just as he'd remembered, the bathroom was unused, spare for the bottles of bleach and detergent which Alfred had used to clean up this morning. No one should be in here for a long time. No one to interrupt him. Carefully, he closed the door, and silently locked it.

He slid down onto the cold marble floor, hands running absent-mindedly along the spaces between the tiles, picking and scratching the plaster from it. It calmed him, somehow, knowing that his efforts will eventually make a fairly sized hole in the plaster, and not long, the adrenaline from his attempts to sneak out has all but evaporated, dissolved into the tiles below.

His hands stopped abruptly on the tiles, sensing the lever to a secret compartment, and pushed down. As soundless as the night, a floor tile next to him sunk down and moved sideways, revealing a hastily dug hole. A single item sat in the middle of the hole: an old batarang.

Bruce studied the batarang, admiring it under white fluorescent lights. It was one of the earlier models, not as wide as the current one but heavier as well. He hasn’t mastered alloying the materials back then, and instead depended on his instincts, and so he made the batarang as slim and sharp as possible, great for cutting through things efficiently.

His mouth quirked up in a bittersweet grimace. He was so optimistic back then, so confident in his mission. So sure that his efforts would undoubtedly make the world a better, safer place. He never skipped patrol for even half a day just to help more people on the streets get back home safely. Looking back, no matter what he did, it was never enough, so why did he even bother anymore? He was so naive.

And so stupid.

In all his attempts in making Gotham safer, he'd done the exact opposite. In creating Batman, he'd unintentionally created more super-villains. And with them, more crime. In fighting better and smarter, he'd also forced the villains to evolve more drastic techniques. Crime sprung up faster than he or the GCPD could control, most of them terrorist attacks attempting to lure Batman out to unmask him.

Bruce let out a shaky breath as the memories from last night flashed through his mind. The stale air of an abandoned warehouse contaminated by the putrid smell of faces and intestines. Wet tiles as slippery as ice stained his boots red. And in the far corner, rows upon rows of chained figures, slumped against the wall with their bellies sliced open, with something pink and yellow spilling from the gaping wound, the source of the wetness and odor. The walls were spray painted with colourful grins and symbols.

He managed to describe the situation to some equally hollow-eyed officers before stumbling home and throwing up all over the toilet. Clark came as soon as he could, hugging him close to his chest, peppering kisses all over him with unspoken reassurance. Could say nothing but soft shushes of comfort, could do nothing but hug and kiss him, squeezing the sobs out of his chest and rubbing away unprompted hiccups.

Bruce shook his head viciously as if the memory was a physical object, a pestering fly he needed to shake off. He rubbed his eyes and unconsciously wiped his nose. _When was his face wet again?_

Then, a sudden moment of clarity as the visions dissolved into darkness. With terrifying calmness, his hands travelled down to the hidden compartment, felt around the smooth, cold box, before wandering back to the middle.

He retracted his hand, now with a batarang held snuggly in its grasp. He thought of Alfred, of Clark, of all the amazing people he'd met along his mission. Whispered apologies that would never be heard.

And put the blade to his wrist.

* * *

_20 years earlier_

Bruce sat huddled in the corner of his bedroom, legs hugged against his torso. His vacant stare swept over the opposing window, hollow and unblinking.

He heard Alfred calling him from downstairs, and promptly ignored it. He has been sitting there huddled for some time now and has no intention of moving anytime soon.

Another call. this time with a slight huff of exasperation.

Bruce continued to stare at the window. His mind utterly empty.

Could do nothing but stare.

And grieve.

* * *

_19 years earlier..._

Bruce sat opposite the furnace in the living room, staring absent-mindedly at the cackling flames. Every crack from the fire was an ugly mocking sound, teasing and laughing at him, twisting the knife deeper into his heart until he bled out into a hollow casket.

He went forward and stood right in front of the flames. Imagined what it'd be like to put his head in the flames, to slowly burn until nothing was left of him except a pile of ash. The idea was tempting. How painful would burning be? He'd suffered through heartbreak which was surely a million times worse.

And so, he reached out a finger to touch the flames, and immediately recoiled as a burst of heat scorched his fingers. Waving it around frantically, all thoughts of burning was lost completely to the explosive pain. He blew air onto his burning finger until the pain eased away.

Bruce stared at his now cherry-red finger, then at the fire. It was still happily cackling and burning as if nothing has happened.

He grimaced and rubbed his fingers. Decided that he didn't like physical pain as well.

The next day, a glass cover magically appeared over the furnace, Bruce didn't need to ask to know that Alfred had seen his burnt fingers at the dining table.

* * *

_15 years earlier_

He'd thought about it, thought about it more than anything else. More than vengeance, more than the very graphic ways that he would end his parents' murderer. And yet he never had the courage to do it. Not even the bottomless pit of sorrow and despair was enough to suck away his cowardice.

He'd thought of at least 5 ways to end his life with every furniture in the manor over the past years, some more detailed than the other. And yet, he kept coming to this exact spot, a dent in the roof above the master bedroom.

Perched precariously over the roof, he was at least 15 meters above ground. 20 if he made it to the highest spot. All it took was a push, a slip, and gravity would do all the work for him. He would glide or plummet- depending on the wind- right onto the hard concrete paving below. A fall this height would surely be enough to break every bone in his body.

Or is it easier to fall onto the fence surrounding the garden and be impaled instead? Will the fall generate enough force to ensure that the fence would go through him clean like a BBQ stick? What if the initial stab didn't kill him, and left him dangling in mid-air, bleeding out with the fence painfully sticking through his abdomen?

Bruce grimaced and stuck to the original plan to ensure a quicker end. He'd have to land on his head though, to ensure the neck would be broken clean from a single impact.

Then Alfred's voice rang through the grounds, informing him that supper was ready. Bruce froze, his hands gripped the railing until they were white.

He pondered jumping right this instance for a terrifying second and end this suffocating darkness. And yet, as his hands loosened their grip, his feet automatically planted themselves even more firmly into the ground, refusing to let his body slip.

Alfred called again. Footsteps could be heard.

Bruce's eyes watered as he fought with his stubborn body to let go. Why was he such a coward? Why couldn’t he let go? But more importantly, why was he up here, worrying Alfred with his own selfishness? He was then struck by a sudden image of Alfred, kneeling in the dirt and holding up his broken body, tears streaming down his face like a leaking pipe, whispering prayers that would never come true.

He gripped the railing. He couldn't do it.

Not to Alfred.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice was clearly audible now, and the footsteps are getting louder, more frantic. Not even the refined British accent could hide the slight tremor at the end.

Bruce let go, but instead of tumbling to the ground, slid skillfully off the roof, and grabbed onto any ledges to soften his fall. He rolled onto a fluffy patch of grass.

He plucked the stray grass from his hair and took a deep breath. Knocked on the front door.

Alfred opened the door in record time, disheveled and red-faced, his distress visually apparent. He barely had time to open his mouth to give his ward a proper admonishing before Bruce attacked him in a bone-crushing hug, eyes wet with unshed tears.

 _Ah_ , Alfred thought, his own eyes beginning to moisturize as well, _perhaps the scolding is not necessary._

* * *

_present day_

Clark woke with a start. It was rare that the man of steel would wake from a nightmare, but this was one of those unlucky days. He ran a warm and clammy hand over his face and sighed into his palm. He was Superman in his dreams, saving people, doing the usual hero stuff. Then the horror began. Bruce was in the dream too, but only as a faint echo of a heartbeat, which kept getting fainter and weaker until Clark couldn't hear it anymore.

Clark gave another huge sigh and ran his hands over the rumpled sheets. At least it was just a dream, Bruce was here right next to him.

So he reached out a hand to where he knew his boyfriend would be sleeping, and instead of a warm body, felt cold air. His heart skipped a beat.

Pushing past his momentary panic, Clark rationalized that Bruce probably had nightmares as well and went out to get some fresh air. _Yeah, it's not the first time he left bed in the middle of the night,_ he thought, and extended his hearing to pin-point his location.

There, at the bottom of the manor, near the west wing.

And yet he frowned. Something about the heartbeat sounded wrong. It sounded nothing like the strong, steady tempo which he'd learned to love and cherish, but instead an erratic and weak pulse, barely hanging on to life.

Clark's stomach sank.

Then he heard a metallic clang, and his brain went haywire. In record time, he zoomed over to the origin of the weakening heartbeat, not even caring that he was basically naked. He yanked open the locked door effortlessly and came face-to-face with a scene straight out of his worst nightmares.

All he could remember was his body moving on its own accord while his brain still hasn’t finished processing the scene in front of him. "Fuck..." Clark couldn't speak, couldn't form any coherent sentences except for swears. "Fuck fuck fuck..." he repeated it like a dreaded mantra as he desperately tried to stop the bleeding. He wasn't even sure he could stop it, the cut was precise, the wound was too long, and the blood flow was alarming. Bruce was unconscious, his face a deathly pale, a batarang discarded at the side.

He didn't even realize his eyes were streaming until he saw a splash of colourless liquid against the red. And that somehow yanked him back to his senses. Like a broken computer restarting after being in sleep for eternity, his brain slowly went back online. Calming himself down with quick gulps of air, he kept pressure on Bruce's arm, but instead of pressing down, held it in front of his eyes. Tried not to cringe at the sight.

He closed his eyes, focused on them until a warm heat spread from behind his retinas towards the cornea. A ray of low-energy heat vision shot out from his pupils, cauterizing the cut in a growing smell of burnt flesh and white smoke.

Bruce jerked weakly as he cauterized the wound, brows furrowing together in pain. Then he squinted open his eyes, bleary and confused. He took a full second staring at Clark through glassy eyes before realization dawned upon him.

And began to thrash wildly, trying futilely to break away from him.

"LET GO OF ME YOU-" He screamed, clawing desperately at Clark's hands. His face was screwed up in a mixture of pain, anger, and betrayal. "LET ME GO YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"

"No," Clark replied stubbornly, pinning his disorientated boyfriend to the ground, making sure to keep the cauterized wound away from the struggle, "I'm not letting you go, I'll never let you go." He choked up at the end, the sentence barely audible. More splashes joined the red puddle on the ground. "I love you Bruce, please don't do this."

Bruce didn't hear anything through his violent struggle. "LET GO OF ME YOU BLISTERING MOTHERFUCKE-" Clark kissed him, cutting off a long line of profanities. To his surprise, Bruce responded, kissing him back like a fierce statement, pulling him in closer. Clark was about to declare this as a victory when he saw a hand sneaking over to the batarang in the periphery of his vision.

He broke the kiss and grabbed both of Bruce's hands, keeping them as far away from any sharp objects in sight. Bruce gave a broken growl at this and kicked him, trying to throw him off. After several minutes of unsuccessful kicking and twisting, Bruce gave up with a frustrated groan, and threw his head back, brow furrowed in immeasurable disappointment.

"Why can't you just..." Bruce broke off in a hiccup, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, clouded with more emotions Clark had even seen him express in his entire life. "...why can't you just let me die?" He whispered.

Clark's heart broke at the sight of Bruce, devoid of hope and so ready to give up. Icy blue eyes which sparkled with intelligence were greyed with unspeakable pain and suffering, dark locks clung to his sweat and tear-soaked face like wet tissue. Every cell in his body screamed of resignation.

"Give me the batarang. Please," Bruce croaked, now looking straight at Clark. "I deserve it."

"No, no you don't. "Clark found himself blabbering before he knew it, shaking his head like a madman. "No you don't Bruce, don't say that."

"I do. Please, Clark? Just give me it or do it yourself."

Clark looked away, knowing that he would break even more if he saw those eyes, hollow and begging for a means to an end. "I'm sorry Bruce, I can't do that."

"Why... not?" Bruce gritted.

"I love you," Clark said simply, "And I can't bear to lose you."

Now it's Bruce's turn to look away, biting his lip so hard it drew blood.

Clark pressed on. "If you killed yourself, what would Alfred think? What would the kids do without their father?" Bruce's eyes darkened, but Clark continued, "I know it must feel hopeless, but there's always hope. We can work this out together, like how we always do."

Bruce shook his head stubbornly. "No you... you don't understand."

"Help me to," Clark whispered.

Bruce gave Clark a long stare, expression carefully blank, the only indicator of his inner turmoil being his rapidly flickering eyes. Clark could physically see a storm of debate cooking up in that incredible brain of his, throwing out arguments and rebuttals like an automatic dispenser.

"I failed," Bruce finally said, with a shrug of pretend nonchalance.

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did." Bruce gritted, and his gaze hardened impossibly. "I failed Gotham. I failed my parents, and I failed everyone who'd ever cared for me. I'm a fucking failure, don't you see that? Don't you understand?!"

Clark remained silent, knowing that any words would fall on deaf ears. Instead, he pulled Bruce in for a bone-crushing hug. Hoped that would convey everything he wanted to say.

Bruce clutched him back, holding on for dear life, and burrowed his head into Clark's shoulder. He let out a shuddering breath. "Why can't you just... let me go?” He shook his head mechanically, as if that movement alone would show him all the answers. “You deserve better."

His heart ached, and Clark only hugged him tighter in response.

Bruce began to blather now, voice wavering and breaking off into hiccups occasionally. "I made everything worse, all I did was – _hiccup_ \- make things worse. No matter what I fucking do or say, everything turned out the same way, I – _hiccup_ \- thought I could make Gotham safer – _hiccup_ \- but I only made it worse..."

His voice got smaller and smaller until it was barely audible, but Clark continued to rub circles onto his back, continued to rock him back and forth, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, reassuring him that everything was alright, that everything will work out in the end. His shoulder was dampening with tears and snot, but he didn't care.

Nothing mattered except for Bruce.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for ruining your day. You're welcome to yell at me in the comments.


End file.
